Transcriber’s Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
The following are possible misspellings:
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
1816.
London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
13, Poland Street.
Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme
Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.
Love, though, when guilty, the parent ofevery crime, springs forth in the noblesthearts, and dwells ever with the generousand the high-minded. The flamethat is kindled by Heaven burnsbrightly and steadily to the last, its objectgreat and superior, sustained byprinciple, and incapable of change. But,when the flame is unsupported by thesepure feelings, it rages and consumes us,burns up and destroys every noble hope,perverts the mind, and fills with craftand falsehood every avenue to the heart.Then that which was a paradise, becomesa hell; and the victim of its power, a maniacand a fiend. They know not the force4of passion, who have not felt it—theyknow not the agony of guilt, who havenot plunged into its burning gulf, andtrembled there. O! when the rigorousand the just turn with abhorrence fromthe fearful sight—when, like the pharisee,in the pride of their unpollutedhearts, they bless their God that theyare not as this sinner—let them beware;for the hour of trial may come to all; andthat alone is the test of superior strength.When man, reposing upon himself, disdainsthe humility of acknowledging hisoffences and his weakness before hisCreator, on the sudden that angry Godsees fit to punish him in his wrath, andhe who has appeared invulnerable tillthat hour, falls prostrate at once beforethe blow; perhaps then, for the firsttime, he relents; and, whilst he sinkshimself, feels for the sinner whom, in thepride and presumption of his happierday, he had mocked at and despised.There are trials, which human frailty5cannot resist—there are passions implantedin the heart’s core, which reasoncannot subdue; and God himself compassionates,when a fellow-creature refusesto extend to us his mercy or forgiveness.
Fallen, miserable Calantha! wherenow are the promises of thy youth—thebright prospects of thy happiness? Whereis that unclouded brow—that joyouslook of innocence which once bespoke aheart at ease? Is it the same, who, withan air of fixed and sullen despondency,flying from a father’s house, froma husband’s protection, for one momentresolved to seek the lover whom sheadored, and follow him, regardless ofevery other tie? Even in that hour ofpassion and of guilt, the remembranceof her husband, of her sacred promise toher aunt, and of that gentle supplicatinglook with which it was received, recurred.A moment’s reflection changedthe rash resolve; and hastening